


What Light Through Yon Window . . . ?

by second_skin



Series: Sun Up (ficlets) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Morning Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mycroft isn't fond of sunrise. That's an understatement. But he's had to make some compromises for Greg, and all in all, he'd say it's been worth it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Light Through Yon Window . . . ?

Mycroft always wakes before sunrise. He likes to open his eyes to moonlight casting fuzzy shadows over the room. Whether that room is in his London home or a nondescript hotel in the troublesome-world-capital-of-the-moment doesn't matter. What matters is that he rises _before_ the sun--starting the day with a victory, besting his most persistent foe.

In truth, he always feels a little prickle of irritation when he realizes that the sun _is_ truly about to rise again, because, after all, it's his least favourite celestial object. It's a showy, generally unflattering light that burns and freckles and forces him, in extreme cases, to loosen or remove items of clothing he'd much rather keep buttoned and tucked.

He doesn't know how he ended up with a man who is on such friendly terms with the sun. Indeed, there is a direct relationship between the number of hours of bright sunlight and the number of hours Greg Lestrade smiles and/or laughs each week. Mycroft has tracked this in code in his pocket notebook and documented it in CCTV footage for the past year.

Quantifying the relationship between Greg and the sun has been simple. Analyzing the qualities of the relationship--such as the way the light just kisses certain planes and curves on the D.I.'s face or burnishes his shoulders to one of the most beautiful colours Mycroft has ever observed--that is a more difficult task. One that will probably take the rest of their lives together.

But despite his partner's preference, Mycroft will not be seduced into a threesome in which he's sure to be the odd--and blistered--man out. He will _not_ become a diurnal creature, even for Greg.

 

Mycroft's favourite mornings are now in Greg's sparsely furnished, untidy flat, because this is where the D.I. sleeps best and most deeply. And Mycroft understands that if you're not a Holmes, sleep is valuable. And if you're a member of the Met it's also a rare commodity. Something that should be preserved and cherished.

So he lets Greg sleep until the last moment--a half hour before sunrise--even though Mycroft himself has been awake, squinting over documents on his laptop, for hours.

He watches the shadows on the ceiling while brushing his fingertips through the fine, dark hair on Greg's stomach, then lifts himself up so that he can flick his tongue over one brown nipple, then the other--blowing cool air over each and watching them harden into pebbles.

"Stop it." The voice is rasping, still asleep.

Mycroft moves his fingers down to sweep across the softer hair that trails across Greg's abdomen to the waistband of his blue cotton boxers. If he's feeling very eager, Mycroft will let one or two fingers slip under the waistband to feel the warmer, more tender flesh there. But then he'll move his hand back up. Up to that Most Sensitive Spot along Greg's torso--the three square inches that are off limits when his partner is fully conscious. Too ticklish. Mycroft will carefully skim his index finger across the smooth, pale, hairless skin and feel goosebumps rise and a shudder move through Greg's body--he's trembling from his scalp to the soles of his feet. Can't fall back into sleep now. _Good_. Mycroft smiles.

"Stop that, My." Another gravelly whisper and a grab for Mycroft's wrist in the dark is the response.

Mycroft stops and moves up to nuzzle his face into a stubbled neck, feeling as if tiny acupuncture needles are stinging his cheeks and lips. Knowing just the spot under that perfect chin that will make Greg sigh and turn his body toward the sensation, Mycroft fashions a chain of kisses and licks from neck to collarbone, and finishes by sucking an earlobe. His hot breath floats into Greg's ear on nonsense syllables.

Still half-asleep, Greg will at last hum approval. Then Mycroft will test Greg's willingness to cooperate by pulling himself up and pressing his erection against that Most Sensitive Spot on Greg's side and moving his hand to Greg's warm, dry lips. If the answer is yes, Mycroft will hear the rasping voice again, feel Greg's breath on his fingertips.

"Jesus. Okay. Kiss me, you bloody vampire."

Greg stretches his arms above his head, eyes still closed but giving in _again_ to the fact that five a.m. is morning per Mycroft Standard Time. The Inspector sighs and sucks each of Mycroft's fingers into his mouth one by one, stiffening Mycroft's erection and his resolve. Mycroft smiles and usually can't stifle a little growl of triumph as he climbs on top of Greg.

Mycroft's hands grip Greg's wrists and his mouth slides into place, wet and firm and demanding. _Yes, love. Wake up for me,_ Mycroft thinks as Greg begins kissing him back and slowly moving against him.

_Yes. I need you._

And as he feels Greg's leg move up to wrap around and pull him closer, it's just warmth and skin and the silver moonlight dancing on the walls around their dark silhouettes.

Mycroft whispers, "I want you now, Greg. Yes? Say yes."

And Greg finally opens his eyes and grips Mycroft, spreading the wetness seeping from both their cocks over Mycroft's from slit to shaft, twisting just enough to pull a groan of pleasure from Mycroft's throat, and then circling his thumb lightly over the tip before positioning it just so. The entrance to his body is still stretched and ready from the day before, so the only thing left for Mycroft to do is to close his eyes and bury his face in Greg's shoulder as he thrusts in, dizzy and incoherent now with need. A need he still doesn't understand.

Mycroft is never sure whether his copper is trying to be funny (Greg regularly has to explain his jokes.) or it's just a simple reflex, but by way of closure after they are spent and giddy and breathless, Greg pulls his fingers through the hair at the nape of Mycroft's neck as the despicable yellow light erases the night. And he says it with a grin:

"Good morning, sunshine."

 


End file.
